Dear Ida,
It’s been a while since I’ve written to you. You might remember me as Stuck-Up Suit, Celibate in Manhattan, Fucked in Manhattan and Fifty Shades of Morgan. Same guy. Well, tonight, I’m happy to say I’ve earned a new name: Poopface in Manhattan. That’s right. I just looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and noticed that I literally have shit on my forehead. Don’t ask me how it got there. You know what the funny thing is? I’ve never been happier in my life. That’s right. This guy with shit on his face is deliriously happy! That realization prompted this message. You remember that smart-mouthed girl I met on the train—the one I used to write in about? Her name is Soraya. I knocked her up. Can you believe it? She gave birth to my son a month ago. I’ve trapped her forever, and now she’s producing little dark-haired, Italian Morgans. I have a son, Ida. A son! Thus, the shit on my forehead right now. Pretty sure it’s from when I changed his diaper a little while ago. Yes, the poop is still there. I haven’t wiped it off yet because…have I mentioned…I’m deliriously happy? I haven’t gotten sleep in six days. SIX DAYS, Ida! I didn’t even know humans could survive on no sleep, but apparently you can! I’m proof. You know why it’s all good? Because I’m DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY. On no sleep. There’s one thing, though, that my life is missing. See, Soraya won’t let me make her an honest woman. She thinks she has to lose all this baby weight, fit into a fancy, white dress and walk down an aisle. Our date is set for six months from now, but I just can’t wait another day. I want her to be my wife. I know we don’t need a piece of paper to validate what we have, but I’m selfish. I want it all because I love her so much. So, my question to you is…what can I do to convince her to marry me tomorrow?
--Poopface in Manhattan
I pressed send, and Soraya’s phone chimed. I watched as she read the message I’d just sent—not to Ida’s email account—but directly to her.
She was sitting right next to me in bed with her big, beautiful tits hanging out as she fed our son, Lorenzo.
Lucky kid. He’s doing what I’d like to be doing right now.
She laughed to herself then typed away on her phone for a while before hitting send.
My phone vibrated.
Dear Poopface,
Perhaps a better name for you would be Sleepless in Manhattan because from the sound of your rambling message…you are wired. I think while you are “deliriously happy,” your son keeping you awake is turning you into part zombie, part spaz. By the way, no one has ever looked sexier with shit on their face, but please wipe it off. That said, you are officially the best father in the world to our children, Chloe and Lorenzo. That poop on your forehead right now is just another example of that. I’ve never loved you more. I’m starting to realize that if making it legal means that much to you, then it’s the least I could do to thank you. I say tomorrow we head down to city hall and make me a Morgan.
Love always, Mrs. Morgan in Manhattan.
P.S. We’ll take the train.
THE END